Baby Bank, page 2
She laughed, then all I heard was what sounded like a chip going down the wrong pipe. She coughed and sputtered for a moment before returning to the phone. “But you didn’t say no!”
I said goodbye and hung up the phone, then stuck it in my pocket while I finagled my keys into the lock on my front door. My orange-and-black-striped cat Macavity was primed and ready to shoot out between my legs and onto the street, but I blocked the old man with my bag and pushed him back inside. “Hey! No! Get back inside. Stop trying to leave me.”
“Did he get out?” my roommate’s voice called out from the other room. “That fucking cat tore up my Tieks this morning. I’m absolutely not speaking to him.”
I locked the door behind me and wagged a finger at Macavity, lowering my voice to a harsh whisper. “You’re causing trouble again.”
With his escape to freedom shut down, he slinked away from me without a second look. I followed him into the kitchen where my roommate and friend Yasmeen Kiani was sitting on a stool at the counter in front of her computer—her usual work-from-home spot as a flailing serial entrepreneur who I’d met in law school before she dropped out to pursue business. And then another business. And another. At this point, I had no idea how she was paying her part of the rent, but the check kept coming, so I kept my nose out of it.
“How badly damaged are they?” I asked.
She pointed to the trash can in the corner of the kitchen where a tattered pair of expensive black and teal shoes lay on top. “El fin.”
“I’ll buy you a new pair,” I assured her, mentally calculating an extra two hundred dollars (yes, it’s ridiculous) into this month’s budget. “How’s work going?”
She didn’t look up but pushed a plate of biscuits toward me that she’d made. We’d been friends since law school, but I would be lying if I didn’t admit that her incredible cooking was the biggest reason I still lived here with her and our other roommate, Rachel Blumenthal—also an attorney we met in our law school days, except Rachel had actually completed law school and was now in environmental law with the EPA. “This big retailer is on their usual power trip. It makes no sense why they can’t add a nonbinary or androgynous category to the gender section in their clothing store. My line would be absolutely perfect for their shelves, but they’ve got too many Karens who shop there apparently.”
Sounded about white. “So, margaritas tonight?”
She glanced up at me as if I was crazy to even ask. Taco Tuesdays with the perfect margarita were as close to religion as we came at our home. “Of course. I bought more coarse salt this weekend for the rim.”
“That’s all you.” I was an on-the-rocks, no-salt type of girl. I grabbed a cup of black coffee from our Keurig and then headed up the stairs to my bedroom. My desk was against the bay window facing the front of the house and gave me a lovely view of the homeless guy on the corner peeing into a trash can while I worked.
I looked around my bedroom and pictured myself as a mother. I couldn’t keep living in Capitol Hill the way we were now, that was for sure. I loved the location, and the mortgage was easy to afford, with Rachel paying rent for living in the den and Yasmeen paying for the other bedroom. But could they still live here if I brought a baby into the mix?
Right now, we had a Golden Girls style living concept that had been working well for all of us over the last decade. Originally, we’d all been focused on law school and then beginning our careers, and now we were all in our mid-thirties, and I realized that…maybe I wanted other parts of life instead of just the career.
I splayed out across the bed and propped myself up on my elbows as I began scrolling through my phone. The Baby Bank app was calling to me, but I didn’t give in to the temptation. Instead, I opened up my email—my first mistake—and groaned at the familiar name at the top of my inbox.
From: Arielle Elliot, aelliot@washingtontimes.com
Re: Respond for Comment - URGENT
Ms. Torres,
I’ve attempted to reach you through your office on multiple occasions and have only received the usual “no comment” statement from your receptionist and marketing team. As you know, however, Senator Murphy’s possible affair and impregnation of his campaign intern leading to the current divorce proceedings with his wife has major implications on current political agendas given his stance on women’s reproductive rights and the bill he’s currently championing in the Senate. It is very important that I confirm the details of this case with you in order to properly inform the voting public with regard to who they are supporting.
My contact information is below. Please follow up as soon as possible.
Kindly,
Ari Elliot
Lead Reporter, Washington Times
Email: aelliot@washingtontimes.com
Phone: 202-555-6969
I immediately hit delete on her email. A hazard of my job had always been reporters, and I had been trained well in how to artfully dodge them, but Arielle Elliot was like a dog with a bone. We had yet to meet—which was by sheer skill on my part, thank you very much—since I evaded her as swiftly and skillfully as a deadbeat dad who doesn’t want to pay child support. I wasn’t even the primary counsel on the case she was referencing, so I sure as hell wasn’t about to tie my name to it in the papers.
Although, that was kind of true about all my clients. It was pretty rare that I had a redeemable client who was actually a good person in their day-to-day life and not just a scheming hopeful politician trying to destitute their wife. This job required some depersonalization on my part—trying to keep my own morals and feelings out of the picture so that I could actually do the work…and well.
I let go of my phone and let it fall to the bed as I rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. Macavity came and joined me, sitting in a round pile of fur by my head and purring so loudly that he vibrated the entire bed. My hand drifted down to my stomach, and I closed my eyes, imagining a baby kicking inside one day. A little cherub with pudgy cheeks calling me mama and running around like a toddler gymnast climbing the walls of this house. The smile spread over my face before I could overthink it.
I wanted to be a mother. And I didn’t want to wait.
Chapter Two
Ian, 24. Capitol Hill Staffer. These swimmers deserve to swim the entire ocean. I’m ready to populate the sea! Message me if you’d like to get good and pregnant as soon as possible.
“Absolutely not.” I swiped left immediately. Sorry, Ian.
Yasmeen pointed to the profile that popped up next. “What about Garrett?”
We had cast my phone screen to our Apple TV so Yasmeen, Rachel, Isa, and I were all swiping on potential baby daddies in my living room while stuffing ourselves with Taco Bell delivery from DoorDash and homemade margaritas.
“He says he’s a lobbyist for Walgreens,” I replied, frowning as I tucked my legs beneath me on the couch and reached for another sip of my on-the-rocks margarita. “Anything remotely related to Big Pharma is out.”
I swiped past three natural-insemination-only profiles before stopping on Rashaad, 23. “A creative looking to get creative with my legacy. I have twenty-twenty vision and never needed braces, but I do have seasonal allergies to pollen. I do not want to co-parent, so the kid is all yours. I wouldn’t mind the occasional picture or update though.” I read his bio out loud to my friends. “This guy has some potential. He’s really cute.”
“Oh, but he’s in Woodbridge, though.” Isa pointed at the screen where his location was displayed. She was sitting on the floor cross-legged with a plate of tacos in front of her and at least three pieces of shredded lettuce and cheese dropped on the front of her shirt.
Automatic swipe left. “Yeah, sorry. Northern Virginia is out, too.”
Rachel laughed and propped her feet up on our coffee table. She was on her latest round of the keto diet, so her margarita was basically tequila and water. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a loose French braid and her blue eyes sparkled whenever she smiled. How she was still single, I would never understand. “Guys, Virginia is literally like a mile away. Less, even.”
“But you have to cross a bridge,” Yasmeen pointed out. “We don’t do that. And Woodbridge is like a lot of bridges.”
“What about Cliff?” Rachel gestured to the screen when the next profile popped up. “He’s got a man bun and a caveman beard.”
“In DC? That means he is probably a mixologist and talks about his craft way too much,” I replied, only partially joking. “I don’t know what he’s hiding under that beard, but he’s not bad looking. Oh, wait, that last line—looking to provide natural insemination only with no desire for co-parenting, etc. Next. Wait, what’s PI mean?”
I pointed at the next profile that stated it was open to AI, PI, and NI.
Yasmeen typed something into her phone, then looked at me. “Partial insemination.”
I scrunched up my face. “What the heck does that mean? How do you get partially pregnant?”
“Just the tip!” Isa raised her hand and pretended like she was cheering.
Yasmeen laughed. “Or maybe he just tries to aim close and then the swimmers have to battle it out to see who wins.”
“I honestly can’t even believe we’re doing this,” Rachel responded as I continued to swipe through more profiles. “You do realize that pregnancy means like ten months without margaritas, right? Or soft cheeses! What about eggs benedict? You love runny eggs.”
“Not to mention she’s going to be kicking us out.” Yasmeen looked over at Rachel. “Unless she wants free childcare.”
“Absolutely yes to free childcare,” I joked. “I mean, I think until the baby is toddler age, they don’t take up a lot of space. So, we have time to figure all that out. Right?”
Isa didn’t look so sure. “The only people I know with kids seem to always be outgrowing their spaces. It’s like plastic toys and baby gear expand and explode with no warning.”
“Stop!” Yasmeen suddenly called out as she pointed to the profile on the screen. “Oh. My. God.”
We all went quiet as we read the bio in front of us. Hi, I’m Aston Li and I’m 27 years old. I have no desire to have a family of my own, but I love helping people in need and figure this is a way I can do it. I have a clean bill of health and I’ve worked with four couples and two single women successfully already. In fact, we have a Facebook group called Pieces of Aston where all the new parents can get to know each other and meet their child’s half siblings. I work in IT and keep my head down, but I’ve got an impressive list of graduate degrees that are guaranteed to deliver you a smart kiddo.
I swear my breath caught in my throat as I read, then I looked at his pictures and I was signed, sealed, delivered. “He’s gorgeous and smart! Plus, he actually sounds like he’s doing this for the right reasons.”
“Okay, but a Facebook group for his sperm demons?” Isa wrinkled her nose. “And it’s called Pieces of Aston? I might gag.”
That was a little weird but also…really practical? “I’m on the fence with how I feel about that one.”
“You should swipe right on him. Message him!” Yasmeen was clearly Team Aston as she leaned forward and clapped her hands to her knees. “I would absolutely make a baby with him as long as I didn’t have to touch a penis.”
“Do you want his information?” I laughed, offering her my phone. She shook her head, and it was a good thing she did because I wasn’t about to let this one pass. I swiped right and clicked the message button. “What do I say to someone I want to make a baby with?”
We all paused on that one, since most of our dating experience had been quite the opposite.
“I don’t think my normal openers on Bumble will work here,” Rachel finally said. “I always ask if they were a steak, how would they want to be cooked? And I only date women, so…”
I grimaced. “Yeah, I’m definitely not opening with a line about meat.”
“Just be genuine,” Isa offered, actually sounding like the reasonable one for once. “Tell him you liked his profile and you’d like to talk further in person or on the phone.”
“Zoom a baby daddy?” I laughed at the idea, even though all of this seemed crazy and far-fetched. “How’s this sound?”
I typed up a quick greeting about myself and that I was interested in his profile. The girls all nodded and agreed that it was simple and no-nonsense, so I hit send.
“Now we wait,” Isa announced, pushing herself up onto her feet. “Another round for anyone?”
We all downed the rest of our margs. Not even two seconds after the last sip, my phone pinged loudly with a new notification.
“Oh, my God, he responded.” My breath caught in my throat. “What do I do?”
“You read it.” Yasmeen grabbed my phone out of my hands and clicked on the notification. Aston’s message pulled up on the Apple TV for all to read.
Great to meet you, Mila. I’d be more than happy to chat via phone or video call. I’m currently at a work conference in Colorado, but I’ll be back home in Washington, DC, this weekend. In the meantime, I’d be happy to provide you with some references to other new moms I’ve worked with.
“He comes with references!” Rachel clapped her hands. “Yes, let’s background check him for sure. I’ll ask my friend in Metro PD to run his name.”
I quickly wrote back to Aston that I’d love to speak to his references and that I was wondering how the process worked. He responded just as quickly the second time.
The way I’ve found most comfortable in the past is that the mom (or moms) books a hotel room for the exchange to occur. I’ll leave my sample in the bathroom alone in a collection kit—you’ll need to buy a home insemination kit for this—while you wait in the lobby and then I will leave the room so that you and your partner can do the rest in privacy.
He also included a few names and phone numbers beneath.
“That actually doesn’t sound too creepy,” Isa commented. “Sounds like a professional service, to be honest. Can you buy a home insemination kit off Amazon? Prime Now delivers in two hours, so you could be pregnant by tonight.”
“He’s still in Colorado,” I reminded her. “I’d have to wait until this weekend, at least. Which is a good thing because it gives us time to check him out and make sure he’s legit.”
Yasmeen finished mixing up the next round of cocktails and passed one out to each of us. “Ask him if he’s willing to send medical records and a recent physical.”
Absolutely. I have a packet ready for any prospective moms that I can email you tonight. It will have my family medical history with names redacted, my own medical history, and a recent physical from the last year including a full blood panel. It will also have recent STD test results and my college and graduate school transcripts.
I immediately responded back to him with my email address and thanked him for his candor and openness. “I have a really good feeling about this guy.”
Another notification popped up at the top of my screen, but this time, it was a motion detection alert from my Ring doorbell.
“Is someone here?” Yasmeen turned to look toward the front door seconds before someone knocked loudly on it. “Are we expecting someone else? Did they text first?”
I shook my head and pulled up the Ring app on my phone to look at the camera. Whoever it was, was standing too close to the camera for me to see their face. I got up and walked over to the front door, glancing through the peephole as I called out. “Who’s there?”
“Is this the residence of Mila Torres, Esquire?” A woman’s voice came from the other side of the door. She stepped back and I could now see her on the Ring camera—she was tall with sharp, yet somehow delicate, features and a brown leather coat that made her look like she was involved in espionage or intrigue.
I was certainly intrigued.
“Who’s asking?” I replied, still not opening the door.
The woman checked her Apple Watch and seemed exasperated. “I’m a reporter from the Washington Times—Ari Elliot. I have a few questions I need to get answered tonight. Is she here?”
How did she find my address? I cleared my throat and quickly tried to think of a response. This chick was clearly determined, but I wasn’t about to become her next source. I looked toward my friends, panic probably written all over my face.
“There’s no one by that name who lives here,” Isa answered for me, shouting through the door. “Sorry!”
“Ms. Torres, I just need a few minutes of your time. We can keep it entirely anonymous,” the woman on the other side of the door continued.
“We’d love to help, but we don’t know her!” Isa shot back, just as stubbornly.
I watched on the camera as the woman threw up her hands and sighed. She shook her head and pulled out her phone, tapping on it for a few moments.
Suddenly, the camera view disappeared on my phone and a new call came through. The caller ID only said Washington, DC. My phone loudly began ringing and I immediately regretted the ringtone I’d chosen. It sounded like an egg timer, and I couldn’t hit decline fast enough.
“Oh my God, is she calling me?” I whispered to Isa.
Isa’s eyes were wide. “That’s her?”
I shrugged because I had no idea, but then the same number called again.
“Ms. Torres, I can hear your phone ringing. I know you’re in there,” the woman called through the door. “Can we please talk? I’ve done my research on you, and there’s no way you support Senator Murphy’s actions in this upcoming bill he’s trying to pass limiting women’s reproductive rights. You can help me expose him.”
I don’t know why, but I hit the floor the moment she said that. As if ducking down was going to be helpful at all since Ari Elliot certainly couldn’t see through my wooden front door. Isa crouched down, too, and both Rachel and Yasmeen were watching wide-eyed from the couch.
Yasmeen leaned over and turned off the lamp that was on the end table. “Turn the lights off!”
Isa hit the light switch by the front door and the entire room went dark. She giggled as she called out again. “No one is home!”
